Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Remy looks away, purposefully, that hat still pulled low. But the second we pull out of the arena lot, she tugs off the cap, then runs her hands through her lush hair, combing out those gorgeous brunette locks.
“I’m not a hat person,” she admits, like it’s about more than the accessory.
I cruise onto the Embarcadero, the stars in the sky reflecting in the shimmering waters of the bay.
“What's the story behind this hat hatred of yours?” I ask.
As I sail past Fisherman’s Wharf, still teeming with tourists, a tease of a real smile appears on her face. It’s the best thing I’ve seen all night—better, even, than a goal. “Don’t laugh when I tell you,” she says.
“I won’t laugh.” It also feels important, this assurance.
“You promise?”
“Swear.”
She exhales heavily. “They feel like they’re squeezing my head.”
I could point out You can adjust a ball cap, you know.
But she doesn’t need a hat lesson. Feels like what she needs is maybe permission to be herself. I glance at her, holding her gaze for a short beat before I return my attention to the road. “You never need to wear a hat with me, Remy.”
She’s quiet at first, then says, “Thanks, Lake. And it’s ironic, isn’t it? Since my last name is Hatmaker.”
I bark out a laugh as I slow at a red light. “I don’t know how I missed that.”
“My last name? Understandable. You don’t have to remember it.”
Oh, I knew her last name. And more details about her than I should know. “No, about Remy Hatmaker’s hatred of hats.”
She leans her head back against the headrest, then sighs. When the light turns and I tap the pedal of my electric car, she adds in a tone full of regret, “I can’t believe everyone saw that.”
I won’t lie and say that no one noticed what went down on the Jumbotron. All I tell her is, “Yeah, it really sucks.”
“It does,” she says, slumping lower in the seat.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, tempted to keep up the convo and ask: Did you actually want to marry that trying-too-hard asshat?
Jameson always seemed like he was putting on a show when I walked past his craft beer stand on the concourse. Like everything was about being your cool brewmaster bud—from the vest, to the undercut, to the way he talked about mindful brewing.
Like that’s even a thing.
I keep my mouth shut though. The GPS tells me to turn left, so I head into the Marina District, and my forearms tighten when the cool, modulated voice says we’re less than half a mile from our destination. I don’t want to say goodnight to her.
As I maneuver through traffic, she blows out another breath. “I shouldn’t have…” she mutters, then purses her lips.
“Shouldn’t have what?”
She rolls her lips together as if sealing in her emotions. She looks like the bottle of Veuve Clicquot she’s clutching, like she’s ready to bubble over. Like she wants to.
“It’ll stay between us,” I add. Maybe she needs someone to confide in who’s not a friend, not a family member—just some dude she works with occasionally.
Sometimes it’s easier with people who don’t know us, who haven’t seen all our flaws, who aren’t aware of all our mistakes.
We roll along a busy block where festive music plays from a tapas bar. When she shifts her gaze to me, her brown eyes are wide, swimming with remorse. “None of it had to happen this way tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
She closes her eyes and covers her mouth like she’s warring with herself to keep the rest locked up tight. After a few seconds of struggle, she drops her hand and blurts out: “I thought he was going to propose to me. Last night I found a little jewelry box in his sweatshirt. I figured it would be during our date, since our one-year anniversary is coming up, and the game was important. I hustled to arrange things at the arena. A big, fun mood. A declaration. On the Jumbotron, so everyone could see. I had a videographer lined up. I ordered the best champagne. I planned the elaborate, romantic moment I’d always imagined, and it went completely wrong. And it’s all my fault.”
There’s so much to unpack in that confession, but we’ve reached her place. I slide into a spot out front, turn off the car, then shift in the seat to face her. “Nothing that happened tonight was your fault.”
Remy just stares ahead through the windshield into the dark city night.
I set a hand on her knee, squeezing. I shouldn’t, but I don’t always listen to good sense. “He could have stopped once he knew you were broadcasting. And he fucking knew. You don’t hear your voice reverberate and not know.” Her brow furrows, like she’s chewing on that thought, and after a moment, I add another. “You set it up, but you acted on a big fucking clue, and you were hoping for something. But he didn’t stop when he should have, and that’s just wrong. Fuck him. That guy is just a dick.”